Holding the String
by Banana Rum
Summary: Even though it hurts, he is proud to hold the string. He will keep holding until the sun burns his flesh away turns everything to dust. Raveneyes likes it when muddyknees says silly things like that. [Roy x Hughes]


**Holding the String**

**Rating: **G (K)  
**Genre: **gen, pre-series  
**Word Count: **around 800  
**Notes: **Platonic Mustang x Hughes, attempts at symbolism, foreshadowing. Probably both fluff _and_ angst; I seriously can't tell the two apart. Oo

Mommy has another stupid 'lunch party' today, so her little boy has to go out and amuse himself. There are no lessons, which is good, but all mommy gave him was some cloth and string. Is he supposed to _sew_ all day?

The little boy sits atop a grassy knoll and broods. If one of the servants sees him sad, maybe they will give him _real_ toys and colored sweets so he will be happy. But he is too far from home, and all the servants are attending mommy's guests. And he knows this, just does not care to admit it. He just sits and frowns.

Stupid mommy.

_Hey_. A voice. The little boy whirls around, and stares at the (unwelcome!) unfamiliar face. The child is about his age; maybe he's one of the children that live in the village. _Raven-eyes, can you make a boat out of that stuff? Then we can race._

Raven-eyes? The little boy wrinkles his nose in contempt when the other showcases his stupid little wooden thing, with a pencil mast and a kerchief sail. Of _course_ he can make a boat.

To prove it, raven-eyes gets sticks from trees and lays them atop the string and cloth. In a flash of shooting stardust and a tinge of burnt earth, alchemy whirls and rushes around the little ingredients and makes them into something _big._

Something important.

_His_ boat has three masts and (too many) rainbows of sails. And his boat can_ fly_, because it's not really a boat at all, but a kite. A grin completely _saturated_ with self-satisfaction spreads across his face as he lets out the string.

He watches as the wind takes his boat-kite away, slowly working the coloured flags and sails up towards wisps of cloud and the sparkles of sunlight hidden behind, feels the burn of the hempen string chafe at the pink, soft skin of his palm. The little boy winces and sees in his mind's eye that he will go home that night with a streak of angry red boils and he won't have anything to blame it on but himself, because –

– Because _this is freedom_. Freedom is the way the fabrics both resist and give into the wind at the same time, the way is arms began to ache from the jerk and toss of his little kite. Freedom is the pain in his hands and the ache of his wrists as much as it is _theskythewind_ the spontaneity of it all.

He steals his gaze away from the mesmerising red and gold, green and white, burned autumn and tender spring. The other child is watching from afar, a sullen look crowning every feature. Raven-eyes wonders why and looks beyond his friend. There, he sees a splintered wooden thing, shattered against the river rocks and sporting white ghost sails that trailed in the water like smoke.

The other boy's boat sank, and his was flying. He thought it might feel good to win, but for some reason it didn't.

_Come here_, raven-eyes calls to the other. The little boy hesitates; he takes one last look back at his own little boat, and slowly makes his way up the hill, slipping on the long smooth grass and covering his knees and hands in marsh mud. Raven-eyes relinquishes his hold on the kite string and offers it to the other. Muddy-knees takes it, cringes (he can feel the rough edges on his palm, too – he can feel the hurt) and then smiles.

It is the silliest looking grin raven-eyes has ever seen, all lopsided and gap-toothed, but it is the most sincere thanks he has been given in a long time. The other boy is tasting the breath of freedom now, as well.

_Even though it hurts_, he says, he is proud to hold the string for raven-eyes. He will keep holding until the sun burns his flesh away and the night breeze chases away the dust he leaves in its wake. The owner of the kite laughs; obviously, there is no need for _that_. But muddy-knees is funny and nice. He likes it when muddy-knees is silly.

He puts his hand on that of muddy-knees, half guiding and half being guided. It is as close as they will get to holding hands. When he lets go, he sees a streak of his own blood on the other boy's hand; the kite string cut deeper than he thought. By now muddy-knees has been holding the string much longer than he had – he hopes that the other boy's hands don't _die_.

-

When he remembers that day, Roy forever wonders why his boat flew while Maes' sank. (_Because of alchemy_, a voice whispers. _Alchemy helped you then and it's keeping you alive today. _He ignores it.) Today he wonders the same thing.

As he watches the clouds roll past like plumes of dust and smoke and _fire_,wrapping tendrils around the blue, blue sky – the empty sky – he sees himself, the future. But when he looks down, he sees jutting stone, sharp engravings and drooping flowers (_the stems are cut; they are dying, choking)_ and he wonders –

If his kite is flying, who is holding the string _now_?

­_fin_


End file.
